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The Global Jewish News SourceFri, 09 Dec 2016 16:37:40 +0000en-UShourly1https://wordpress.org/?v=4.6.1Aliyah Chronicles: Dealing with illness from a distancehttp://www.jta.org/2006/01/16/life-religion/features/aliyah-chronicles-dealing-with-illness-from-a-distance
http://www.jta.org/2006/01/16/life-religion/features/aliyah-chronicles-dealing-with-illness-from-a-distance#respondMon, 16 Jan 2006 15:00:01 +0000http://jta-live.alley.ws/2006/01/16/default/aliyah-chronicles-dealing-with-illness-from-a-distanceWhen a recent immigrant to Israel finds out his father has cancer, his overseas relationships with his family grow stronger through the difficult time.]]>

Jonathan Udren, second from left, with his father Eric, mother Barbara and sister Jenna. (Courtesy Jonathan Udren)

EFRAT, West Bank, Jan. 16 (JTA)  There’s no doubt that living so far away from my family is one of the hardest challenges that I’ve faced as an Israeli immigrant. I still remember my sendoff in Pittsburgh, where my mom sniffled and held back tears as she stood on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around me. And I know I’m not the only oleh to experience this struggle. As clearly as I can recall the faces on my immigration flight filled with inspiration, I can also remember the bittersweet tears from those we left behind at JFK Airport that day more than two years ago. But despite the distance and the infrequent visits, my relationship with my family hasn’t suffered. As a matter of fact, it has flourished since my aliyah. And due to recent family hardships, my father, mother, sister and I have all seen just how solid that bond had become. Ironically, our family crisis came only two weeks after my wedding this past summer. My wife, Dena, and I were in Jerusalem, packing for our honeymoon in the Golan Heights, when we got the call. My mom was clearly shaken, and quickly passed the phone to my father. In a calm but concerned manner, he explained that after a routine checkup a tumor was spotted in his intestine. He wasn’t sure what the treatment would encompass, but one thing was clear: My father had cancer. Two weeks earlier my widely smiling father had been riding high on a friend’s shoulders at our wedding with a joy that filled his whole body. Several weeks later that smile seemed like a distant memory as he explained his treatment, which would include chemotherapy, radiation therapy and then several months later, a very delicate surgery to remove the tumor. My father told me that the surgeon was very optimistic since they had caught the tumor early. He never painted himself as a victim. He chose the term “soldier,” described how he was drafted into this  and how he had to follow the doctor’s orders. At first it just didn’t seem possible. Maybe it was because of the distance, or maybe because of my own fear, but I had trouble really grasping the reality of the situation; I still pictured my dad in his purple shirt dancing at my wedding with that tremendous grin, and wanted to hold onto that frozen image. If I had been in the United States I surely would have planned a trip home soon after the news. But due to cost and the length of the trip it wasn’t even something that came up for discussion. So I did what I could: I talked with my family on the phone a lot, more than ever before. My father would sometimes give me a rundown of his treatment and its side effects, but many times we would enter into deep philosophical or delicate theological discussions about God’s role in our lives, which suddenly seemed so much more pressing. Countless times he would mention how much he was looking forward to coming back to visit me after he healed. Throughout the months of painful chemotherapy and radiation, my father was a strong soldier: For a while, he even continued his jogging routine with his chemotherapy pack strapped onto his back, and I never heard him complain about the pain my mother described him going through. But as time went on, and the treatments accumulated, his outer strength started to fade. I started speaking with my mom exclusively more and more, and each time I sensed an underlying tension that was present even in her best moods. Towards the end of the treatment, most of the conversations with my mother were filled with her tears. I would try to console her, and she maintained her strength throughout; but sometimes it seemed the pain that she described my father was going through hurt her more than it did him. Despite how difficult it became for her, she never made me feel guilty for not being there. In fact, it was the opposite. Nearly every time we spoke she would thank me profusely, and tell me how lucky she is to have Dena and me for support. When I would tell her how I wished I could be there, she would simply say, “No, you’re doing what you need to be doing over there.” Until the time for surgery, the distance made the situation much easier for me. After a painful conversation about my father’s condition, I would hang up the phone and go on with my day. But once the time for surgery arrived, a tangible fear started to surface from my subconscious. My sister Jenna and I shared these common feelings on the phone during the surgery, and then we joked with one another and giggled with anxiety; it was the only thing we could do to keep the fear at bay. After the surgery, at 4 a.m. Israel time, my sister woke me up with an update. We laughed again when she explained how our mom bolted across the room and hugged the doctor after he told her the surgery was a success; apparently with her yellow blazer on she had looked like a canary flying around the waiting room. Certainly the extreme nature of the past few months has brought us all closer together. But each of my relationships within my immediate family has deepened since my aliyah. The inherent difficulty and inspiration of life here pushes trivial matters to the side, and allows for a greater expression of love and appreciation. Even more so now we all see the preciousness of life, and the importance of living one’s dream. Of course one shouldn’t have to live across the ocean or be diagnosed with a life-threatening disease to experience this kind of closeness. But for us, my life in Israel and my father’s cancer have served as a wake-up call to take a closer look at life and what makes it worth living. And I hope and pray that we will be able to share these lessons as a family for many years to come.Jonathan Udren is a freelance journalist and editor from Fort Lauderdale, Fla. He made aliyah in 2003.

]]>http://www.jta.org/2006/01/16/life-religion/features/aliyah-chronicles-dealing-with-illness-from-a-distance/feed0Understanding the pain of withdrawalhttp://www.jta.org/2005/08/03/life-religion/features/understanding-the-pain-of-withdrawal
http://www.jta.org/2005/08/03/life-religion/features/understanding-the-pain-of-withdrawal#respondWed, 03 Aug 2005 13:00:01 +0000http://jta-live.alley.ws/2005/08/03/default/understanding-the-pain-of-withdrawalAn American who immigrated to Israel is increasingly uneasy over the major rift developing in the Jewish state as the Gaza pullout nears.]]>

Settlers, wearing the orange color of the anti-withdrawal movement, rally outside the Knesset in Jerusalem, during the debate on Prime Minister Ariel Sharon´s Gaza Strip disengagement plan in October 2004. (Brian Hendler)

JERUSALEM, July 31 (JTA)  It only took a few minutes after recently returning home to Israel from the United States to realize the distinct difference in reality I was re-entering. After dragging my bags upstairs and getting settled into my apartment, I headed out again to pick up some dinner. But the empty street corner that I had left only several minutes before had suddenly become the site of a spontaneous rally opposing the planned disengagement from Gush Katif and the rest of the Gaza Strip, slated to begin in mid-August. Seemingly from nowhere, 200 or so people, all wearing bright orange T-shirts and rubber bracelets  orange is the chosen color of the anti-withdrawal forces  had filled the area. They lined both sides of Kanfai Nesharim Street, a main Jerusalem artery that serves as a route toward Jerusalem-Tel Aviv Highway 1. The first thought that came to mind was, Jonathan, you’re not in Pittsburgh anymore. My first instinct was that of a journalist: I ran back to my apartment to grab my camera and my notepad. When I returned, many of the people who were lining the sidewalk were now standing in the street, blocking traffic. Most of them were teenage boys. A few older boys started throwing large metal trash bins into the street, and the screech of constant car horns blasted  some drivers honking in support, others just wanting to continue on toward their destinations. Not long after, I moved past the scene. Spontaneous rallies and blocking traffic have become a common occurrence in Jerusalem these days. But it was a scene that I could not put out of my mind. As I continued on, I remembered a previous rally that had broken out at the very same intersection a month earlier and how unsettling that incident was. The earlier rally had been a similar occurrence, at the same time of day. I was sitting in my apartment, and suddenly I heard an endless peal of car horns and the din of loud voices chanting passionately in unison. When I headed out to the street to see what was happening, there were hundreds of people, all chanting, “Jews don’t expel Jews.” They were throwing metal trash bins into the street and blocking traffic  and every one of them was wearing orange. After speaking to several onlookers, I found out that it was a day of planned rallies around the country that were to commence at 5 p.m. during rush hour. I watched in shock as mostly teenage boys and girls stood in front of four lanes of menacing car hoods on all three sides of the intersection. There was even a young man blocking the path of a bus that almost seemed intent on running him over. I asked Levy, a 13-year-old stationed on the sidewalk, why he was out there. My initial thought was that this kid had no idea what the rally was really about; this was what the people in his neighborhood were doing that day, and he would shrug his shoulders when confronted with the question. But he turned around and explained to me very clearly that he didn’t agree with Prime Minister Ariel Sharon’s plan to expel Jews from Gaza and that he thought that we should be expelling the people who were trying to kill Jews, not the Jews themselves. He spoke with feeling, and I could see the depth of his emotion in his eyes; this was not a fleeting thought for him, but a cause that truly touched his heart. Suddenly I had so much respect for this mature young man, who not only had such strong convictions, but had the strength to act on them. I wondered if I had that same strength. When the police finally arrived, they started by gently coercing the protesters to the side of the road. But as one group was pushed onto the curb, another would head right back into the street. A group of mothers, most with strollers or holding small children by the hand, looked on worriedly. Suddenly a policeman grabbed a young girl by her purse, gripped her strongly, leaned in very close to her face and started talking to her in a serious, angry tone. Though all the other police were reacting to the scene in a calm and orderly manner, this one young cop seemed to have a chip on his shoulder. He jumped up into the face of one of the older men standing on the street corner, started shouting at him, and then gave him the same stare-down he had given the young girl. Suddenly a group gathered around them and started yelling at the cop to leave the guy alone. “You’re both Jews,” one older woman called out. “Why are you treating him like that?” she pleaded. “I’m not Jewish,” called back the cop. “I’m a Druse,” he said, referring to the Muslim religious offshoot, the only Arab group in Israel that serves in the army “You’re not a Druse! You’re Jewish; you’re Jewish,” voices from the crowd called out. The policeman’s Ashkenazi Hebrew accent and European skin tone kept the crowd shouting until he finally stepped away from the man. A friend happened to be walking by as the incident started to develop, and we watched together as events unfolded. Though the whole occurrence was terribly disturbing, neither one of us could get over the site of one young man  maybe 10 years old  who kept being pushed to the curb by the cop but would turn around and head back into the street screaming with so much anger in his young face. “This is the saddest thing that I’ve ever seen,” my friend said to me. “From which perspective?” I asked, unsure which side of the fence he sat on in the expulsion issue. “From every perspective.” My friend was right. No matter where one sits on the withdrawal issue, the very fact that Jewish police and army personnel will most probably be forcibly removing Jews from their homes and struggling with protesters will indeed tear at the seam of the nation. This rally illustrated that it’s a tear that we’re already starting to see. Whether Sharon’s withdrawal plan is one that will ultimately strengthen the security situation is unclear at this point. But what is very clear are the repercussions. Deep emotional wounds and resentment from both sides seem unavoidable. And the hardest thing for me  as an immigrant  is to watch the divide between people in the country that I love growing larger and larger as the planned disengagement nears. Jonathan Udren is a freelance journalist and editor from Fort Lauderdale, Fla. He made aliyah in 2003 and lives in Jerusalem.

]]>http://www.jta.org/2005/08/03/life-religion/features/understanding-the-pain-of-withdrawal/feed0A new Israeli moves from grief to joyhttp://www.jta.org/2005/05/11/life-religion/features/a-new-israeli-moves-from-grief-to-joy
http://www.jta.org/2005/05/11/life-religion/features/a-new-israeli-moves-from-grief-to-joy#respondWed, 11 May 2005 13:00:01 +0000http://jta-live.alley.ws/2005/05/11/default/a-new-israeli-moves-from-grief-to-joyA new immigrant to Israel reflects on the depths of the sorrow he feels in remembering Israel’s losses on Memorial Day, and how that sorrow allows him  and all Israelis  to go immediately to the joy of the birth of the state celebrated in Independence D]]>

Fireworks burst out over Jerusalem and the Dome of the Rock as the 16th Maccabiah Games come to a close in July 2001. (Brian Hendler)

JERUSALEM, May 11 (JTA)  It’s springtime in Israel, and I’m feeling what I have to call emotional whiplash. Only a week after the concerts and day trips of the Passover holiday, a wailing siren cuts through the morning air, screaming out the memories of the Holocaust dead. My mind ricochets between images of playful splashing in the cool Mediterranean and the sickening thought of Auschwitz’s burning smokestacks. Just a little more than a week later, it’s Memorial Day, Yom Hazikaron. In Israel, Memorial Day is not a day for barbecues, when the white shoes can come out of the closet, but a time for real national mourning. In a country where nearly everyone serves in the army, nearly everyone knows someone who was lost. Thousands pass through Mount Herzl, the national military cemetery, placing stones or wreaths on graves. Some graves are freshly dug, some have grass growing lushly around them. Television and radio waves are filled with documentaries and stories of our recent battles and of the people we lost along the way. And suddenly, with the setting of the sun, Independence Day, Yom Ha’atzmaut, arrives with a flash of fireworks popping over the night sky. It continues with the family and friends barbecuing together, celebrating this modern-day miracle. As if these stark emotional transitions were not enough, three weeks later comes a day that caps off the memorials: Jerusalem Day. A giant parade wraps itself around the entire circumference of the walls of the Old City of Jerusalem, and then enters into Lion’s Gate, the entrance through which the soldiers who reclaimed the Old City burst. Because Lion’s Gate is in the heart of the Muslim Quarter, on a normal day a Jew would walk there with either great fear or a loaded weapon. But on this day freedom fills the air as we walk past the Temple Mount and wind though the labyrinth of the Old City, emptying out into the Western Wall plaza. Music fills the air, and memories of dancing with strangers celebrating the gift of Jerusalem still replay in my head. But as I approach the Western Wall itself, its great white stones loom over me. As I look down, I realize how close I was  how close all Israel is  to our spiritual and historical roots. And then I look up and realize how far we have to go. The nation is at war with terrorists, as well as with factions of the people themselves. We have Jerusalem, but we also have a nation fractured in so many ways, divided on issues ranging from religion to the future of the state. With so much controversy surrounding the plan to uproot Jews from their homes, how can we find peace within and among ourselves, much less with our neighbors? These days we go from one emotional pole to the other. They cause such pain and joy because they represent the ongoing unfolding of the Jewish future. The battles we fight and the soldiers for whom we mourn  and the nation that we celebrate  are stories that we all live every day. But it is because we feel such extremes of emotion that we feel them so deeply. The joy and the tears are bound together permanently. Only after I cried the tears of my nation was I able to feel the true excitement of its victories. These two days, and their emotions, are so close together that they can overlap, and it can be confusing. On top of Angel’s Bakery stand two symbols  the flame of remembrance, for the Holocaust, and right behind it a light display spelling out the number 57, Israel’s age. The two together symbolize the range of emotions to which we are subjected. The emotion is inescapable; even to a new immigrant like me. As I jog past Mount Herzl, as I often do, I see the preparations under way for the large crowds that will enter its gates on Memorial Day. I think back to February 2002, the last time I walked through those gates. I was a student at a Jerusalem yeshiva then, and I had been sent with two other students to represent the yeshiva at the funeral of Erez Turgeman, a 20-year-old staff sergeant killed by terrorists at a checkpoint ambush. I remember scenes from the funeral very distinctly. Erez’s family and friends gave eulogies, speaking to the hundreds of mourners who stood around the grave. The crowd included tear-stained soldiers from his unit; his family, their grief so deep they could barely stand up; and complete strangers, there to grieve and to provide support. Everyone stood united in misery. The words of Erez’s sister, Dana, 16, still echo in my head: “I had a brother, and now I have an angel,” she said. “But I don’t want an angel. I want my brother.” The emotions behind her words shook the crowd like an earthquake. I looked down and I felt my heart breaking. And that pain can only be contrasted with the joy that I felt last Jerusalem Day, as my friend Ken and I marched around the Old City walls. He was snapping pictures as I looked at the yeshiva students and families all dancing down the streets together. I stared at the walls; before 1967 they had been lined with Jordanian soldiers. Now Jewish soldiers sat on the walls, waving down to us, as music blared from a van filled with Chasidim that drove alongside us. It felt like the fulfillment of thousands of years of prayer. Had it not been for the pain I felt that day at Mount Herzl, then I could not have felt the joy of a reunited Jerusalem so deeply. Only when I truly let the loss of a soldier into my heart could I taste the sweetness of victory, as I savored what so many others had fought and died for. Jonathan Udren is a freelance journalist and editor from Fort Lauderdale, Fla. He made aliyah in 2003 and lives in Jerusalem.

]]>http://www.jta.org/2005/05/11/life-religion/features/a-new-israeli-moves-from-grief-to-joy/feed0An immigrant´s love storyhttp://www.jta.org/2005/04/10/life-religion/features/an-immigrants-love-story
http://www.jta.org/2005/04/10/life-religion/features/an-immigrants-love-story#respondSun, 10 Apr 2005 13:00:01 +0000http://jta-live.alley.ws/2005/04/10/default/an-immigrants-love-storyAn American oleh realizes that even though he wants to integrate into Israeli society, he’s best off finding a wife from a background similar to his own.]]>

Jonathan Udren and his fiancee, Dena Stein. (Courtesy Jonathan Udren)

JERUSALEM, April 10 (JTA)  During my first visit to Israel when I was 24, fantasies of aliyah and Israeli women captured my imagination. I pictured myself waking up every day to the tangerine Jerusalem sun in a narrow Nachla’ot apartment that overlooked the city. Then I imagined falling in love with one of those loud, rosy-cheeked, Teva-sandal-and-flowing-skirt- wearing Israeli girls with wild curly hair and big dusty backpacks. I knew I would find myself back in Jerusalem. But marrying a native Israeli, speaking only Hebrew together and building a home removed from the Western Anglo community and culture where I lived my whole life somehow seemed unrealistic. Inherently I knew I would end up marrying a woman with a similar world view. But only recently, after becoming engaged to an idealistic high-school English teacher named Dena Stein, do I realize how our similarities, the big ones as well as the seemingly minute ones, make all the difference. Coincidentally, we both grew up in Pittsburgh. I lived there until I was 12, and Dena lived there until she left for college in Michigan. We both enjoyed a middle-class American suburban-type lifestyle: a four-bedroom house, two cars, a backyard lawn and cable television. We both are the eldest of two kids, and each of us has a younger sister. Our parents are connected but secular Jews, who consider Israel important but not a potential home. And during our young adulthoods, we both pursued a more serious relationship with Judaism, and through our travels discovered a deep love for Israel. This past summer Dena returned to Israel, and subsequently met me, after finishing her first year teaching English in a Philadelphia high school. After a four-year hiatus from Israel, she had to return to ask herself a question that she could not avoid: Despite all the challenges, can I really imagine myself not living in Israel? As we walked along the beach boardwalk in Jaffa, it seemed that our shared vision of building a home in the Judean Hills charged the salty air between us. It was those two points, religion and Israel, that I assumed were the magnets that drew our futures together. But looking back on our magical summer, our complaints about the small struggles in Israeli culture  like having to push people in the bakery line to place an order  allowed us to forge an even deeper connection. Just as important as the fact that we were looking ahead in the same direction, the fact that we stood on a common cultural foundation was an integral factor in our bonding. One of my rabbis used to tell American guys in Israel that they should date within the Anglo community. “There are going to be enough differences between the two of you just simply because you are a man and she is a woman. Therefore it’s best to have as much in common from the start as possible” the rabbi would say. Among my Anglo friends in Israel, all but one married other Anglos. Even my friend Nati, who made aliyah from South Africa with his parents when he was 12 and went through Israeli schools and the army, still married Michelle from Ohio, who came to study for a year at Hebrew University and never left. Even Nati, who identifies as Israeli and not South African, admitted that he still needed that comfortable cultural viewpoint that only another Anglo could provide. “Coming from South Africa, there’s just a general outlook that is very different than Israel. It has to do with being more open-minded, the way you treat other people and cultural norms. You have to have that sense of familiarity in order to feel at home,” he said. “Plus, Israelis don’t like Burgers Bar as much,” Nati added, noting the affection that Anglos have for this Israeli hamburger chain. I too am finding that the connection Dena and I share lies in the small details. Yes, we love to ponder the poetry of Milton as well as Israeli politics and the Torah portion of the week. But we also can console one another when we receive bad customer service at a supermarket, because we grew up expecting a certain standard. These small similarities and cultural values ingrained in our personalities are as important as the big dreams. Those big dreams are important too, because they’re the visions we’ll be following after our wedding and Dena’s aliyah this summer. We share the dream of a beautiful young woman in a flowing skirt and wild curls, but she’s the vision of the daughter we hope to have. And in a culture that always will be somewhat unfamiliar, all the cultural references and American slang that pepper our speech will provide a sense of comfort and safety.

]]>http://www.jta.org/2005/04/10/life-religion/features/an-immigrants-love-story/feed0Commercialism vs. history in Israelhttp://www.jta.org/2005/01/26/life-religion/features/commercialism-vs-history-in-israel
http://www.jta.org/2005/01/26/life-religion/features/commercialism-vs-history-in-israel#respondWed, 26 Jan 2005 15:00:01 +0000http://jta-live.alley.ws/2005/01/26/default/commercialism-vs-history-in-israelA recent immigrant to Israel wonders if a byproduct of modernity  rampant consumerism and commercialization  will overwhelm the heimische country he used to know.]]>

A hamburger and fries sits on a tray at a McDonald´s outlet at Dizengoff Center in Tel Aviv, Jan. 29. (Brian Hendler)

JERUSALEM, Jan. 26 (JTA)  Standing over the light of the menorah, my roommate and I belted out the Chanukah classic “Maoz Tsur” and admired the flickering lights in the surrounding windows. It was one of those “only in Israel” moments that sweetens my life in Jerusalem. Suddenly we heard a sharp knock on the door. When I answered, a teenage boy shoved a colorful piece of cardboard into my hand and dashed up the stairs toward the other apartments in the building. In the middle of the sheet were blessings over the Chanukah lights printed in elegant Hebrew lettering. But lining the outside border were advertisements for Burgers Bar, Pizza Larry and many other local restaurants and shops. My roommate was amused by the ingenuity of the maneuver. I was irritated. “This is a complete exploitation of the holiday,” I said. “If they want to hand out fliers that’s fine, but to put blessings on an ad? Come on. They’re using sanctity as a marketing ploy.” Considering that I was weaned on the idea that the holiday season was synonymous with religious exploitation, I shouldn’t have been so shocked. But I don’t expect Israel to mirror the South Florida shopping district of my childhood. Unfortunately, I saw the incident as yet another example of Western consumerism that is eroding Israel’s uniqueness. I never ran from America to Israel; my immigration came through love of Israel, not disdain for American life. But I’ve come to realize through the intrusion of ad-covered Egged public buses and a store-sponsored menorah at the Western Wall that what felt so comforting here, and what I feel slowly slipping away, were large pockets of society more or less devoid of rabid consumerism. I never feel the need here to keep up with the Cohens’ electronic gadget or new fad sneakers. The Old City stone doesn’t reflect the image of an out-of-season shirt the way Manhattan glass does. It’s probably because Israelis don’t have as much money in general as Americans, but for me less has always meant more. In the land of our heritage we can explore a sense of identity based on the continuation of our rich history, not on brand names. But over the past five years, during my initial visits and then after I made aliyah, I couldn’t help but notice the growth of American fast-food chains like Pizza Hut, as well as the surge of Israeli chain stores and restaurants. New super-supermarkets like Zol Mahadrin sell everything from kugel to kipot. How can the makolet  the small corner market  compete? This trend makes me feel that the Holy City of Jerusalem will be reduced to just another star on Sam Walton’s map of worldwide conquest though bargain Pampers and bedroom slippers. What will happen when big business closes down the mom-and-pop stores? These shops and restaurants represent so much of what makes Israel unique. Not long ago, my fiancee and I walked into a small hardware store on Dizengoff St. in Tel Aviv. We started chatting with the owners, an older Moroccan mother and her middle-aged daughter, a secular-looking pair, about the part I needed. Before long they asked me where I was from and where I was living. When I told them I lived in Jerusalem, the mother started kissing her fingertips and holding them above her head, looking up to the ceiling and praising God. “Oh, how I love Jerusalem. How I love to visit my kids that live there,” the mother cried out. “Do you know what merit it is to live in Jerusalem? Baruch haShem, baruch haShem.” In response to her questions, I told her that my fiancee and I had gotten engaged only a few days earlier. Both women got up from their seats and for the next 10 minutes rattled off blessing after blessing for a long and healthy life in Israel. We walked out glowing. It’s not the type of thing that happens in the Wal-Mart hardware aisle. For me it’s not only the land that makes Israel unique; it’s also the wonderful people who I find many times in these privately owned shops. Where else but the Jerusalem open-air market can someone experience the unique Israeli charm of seeing a grown man yell out “shekel pitot”  pita bread for one shekel  at the top of his lungs, veins bulging in his neck, the cigarette balanced in his mouth capped with a long ash ready to fall? It’s a vision, albeit slightly grotesque, that I find far more pleasing than another chain grocery. I can’t say that Israel’s Westernization doesn’t have its good points. I’m able to make my living  and waste massive amounts of time  using a high-speed Internet connection. When I need a new pair of running shoes, it’s nice to see familiar brands, though the prices are familiarly high. And as much as I despise the thought of it, when the time comes to furnish an apartment, I’ll probably head to  Ikea, which recently opened a store in Netanya. Still, it makes me ill to see an Egged bus plastered with advertising posters that show pictures of dollar bills. Why would Israel sacrifice its uniqueness to be a low-grade photocopy of the United States? I remember Prime Minister Ariel Sharon speaking at my aliyah absorption ceremony about the Jewish state’s need to represent a real, unique and positive alternative for the Jewish people in order to attract them of their own free will. But where is this uniqueness being nurtured? If the only difference between Israel and Florida is the 20- minute wait for a security check at Israeli malls, then perhaps the vision of a Jewish state has gone awry. As Sharon himself understands, Israel must stand for something unique, and it’s that uniqueness that I felt when I first came that hypnotized me. It’s the history flowing from the ancient stone to the modern highways, and the story of the journey of return on the faces of everyone in the street. Yes, it can be a modern state, but the benefits of modernity should be weighed against the loss of national individuality. To maintain our uniqueness, we must appreciate the beauty in the corner makolet. We must insist that sponsorship should never appear near the Western Wall, and strive for a national identity that fuses the best of modernity with the foundation of our history.

]]>http://www.jta.org/2005/01/26/life-religion/features/commercialism-vs-history-in-israel/feed0Navigating Israel’s bureaucracyhttp://www.jta.org/2004/12/22/life-religion/features/navigating-israels-bureaucracy
http://www.jta.org/2004/12/22/life-religion/features/navigating-israels-bureaucracy#respondWed, 22 Dec 2004 15:00:01 +0000http://jta-live.alley.ws/2004/12/22/default/navigating-israels-bureaucracyAn American oleh, armed with urban legends about the inefficiency of Israeli bureaucracy, is surprised by a pleasant experience at the Jewish state’s Interior Ministry.]]>JERUSALEM, Dec. 22 (JTA)  “You have to arrive two hours before they open, or you’ll never get in,” people told me. “Even if you bring your whole filing cabinet, they’ll say you forgot something and that you have to come back tomorrow,” several friends warned me. “You heard about the baby, the one that needed emergency surgery in the U.S. and almost couldn’t leave because she didn’t have a passport picture?” a friend asked. For immigrants and natives alike, the Ministry of the Interior, or Misrad Ha’Pnim, is the stuff of Israeli urban legend. Of all the bureaucratic red tape that Israeli citizens must wade through, the Interior Ministry seems the most impenetrable. Here, the supposedly simple tasks of renewing a passport or changing one’s address are transformed into a nightmare of six-hour lines in a lobby bursting with wrestling children and nasty clerks. Maybe not all the Interior Ministry stories are true. But you don’t hear tales like these spun about any other government office. The time came where I could no longer defer my visit. I needed an Israeli passport to leave the country, and there was only one way to get one. As I walked heavy-footed toward the lobby, cursing myself for not having arrived at 6 a.m., I expected to see patrons pushing one another, fighting to be first to confront the hostile clerk. But when I walked into the lobby, there were only a handful of people waiting. And when I checked the numbered ticket in my hand, I realized there were only 15 people in front of me. One was a hippie-looking guy with flowing clothes, a long beard, peyos and a big kipah playing Shlomo Carlebach tunes on his guitar. For a moment I was convinced I had the wrong office, till someone came out from the back and yelled at him to stop. Before I even had time to read a chapter in my book, my number flashed on the board. I eyed the clerk from the seating gallery. She looked pleasant enough, a bleached-blonde, middle-aged Israeli woman with a seemingly mild disposition. Still, I approached cautiously, one hand in front of me, tiptoeing toward her as if she were a rabid dog. I greeted her with the most pleasant “Shalom” ever recited, and neatly laid out the necessary documents, all completed in full. Without a word, she started entering the information into the computer. Her nameplate read Shlomit. “That’s a nice name,” I thought, “but it must be a cover.” Under the desk I had cash, check and credit card ready, as well as my flight coupons just in case she tried to send me home without my passport. “OK, 271 shekels,” Shlomit said, which came out to about 60 dollars “Excuse me, I thought that olim were suppose to get a discounted rate of 71 shekels,” a difference of about $45, I said. “Sorry, that’s only during your first year,” she responded. “You’ve been here for almost a year and a half, right?” “Are you sure?” I asked, finding myself getting pushy. “Yes, I’m sure,” Shlomit answered briskly. “Now, how do you want to pay?” Part of me wanted to live out my Interior Ministry fantasy in which I demand to speak to a manager and scream to him about my rights as an immigrant and a citizen. Instead, I handed over my credit card. “How long will it take to arrive?” I asked, fearing one last hurdle. My flight for the United States was in less than three weeks. “It will arrive at your post office in three days,” Shlomit answered while typing. “I’m sorry, did you say three days?” I asked in shock. “That’s right,” she said. She handed me the receipt and said, “OK, you’re done.” This was going much too easily. As I got up, I leaned over to her and said, “You know, Shlomit, people tell horrible stories of their experiences here.” “Really?” she said in complete shock. “Well, I’ve never heard any of these stories.” I walked out of the office about an hour after I had arrived, whistling the Carlebach tune I had heard in the lobby. Sure enough, three days later I got a slip in my mailbox for the passport. I thought to myself how exaggerated the stories about Israeli bureaucracy were. People have deferred their aliyah because of these kinds of stories. Admittedly, I haven’t yet bought a house or car, and yes, offices do run a bit slowly and inefficiently. But jumping through the bureaucratic hoops didn’t raise my blood pressure one digit during my whole absorption process. That is, until I enrolled for my Master’s Degree at Bar-Ilan University. On registration day, I wandered like a zombie from one office to the next, forms in my hand, clueless as to my next step. By the time I found the office I needed, it was after 3 p.m., and it had closed. So I had to make the hour-and-a-half commute from Jerusalem the next day as well. After several hours of varied offices and lines, I finally had my registration form ready. All I needed to do was to have it signed at the English office and pay at the bank. I walked in with a smile, waiting to exhale, sheet extended. But the secretary got up from her desk, yelled “No changes,” and closed the door in my face. I pushed it open a crack and said, “But I’m new here. I don’t even know what’s going on.” She ignored me and kept typing. “I don’t even understand why you’re yelling at me,” I said. “What am I supposed to do now?” I asked out loud, throwing up my hands. Seeing my frustration, another student in the office came over and told me that today was the last day of registration. “It’s already past noon, she said. “The only way you’re going to get help is from the other woman in the back. When she’s done with that student, tell her your situation and she’ll help you.” Thankfully, the other administrator did stay late and help me. But the lack of compassion and frustration inherent in bureaucracy already had affected me. I saw how these clerks hold the keys to your life in their hands, and their lack of concern hit the most sensitive of nerves. On the bus ride home, I tried to sympathize. Israel is still a young country, and I have to be patient while it works out the kinks. And maybe the system isn’t so much the problem; should a few rotten apples spoil the whole bunch? Plus, is this type of bureaucracy completely foreign to the United States? Every American can tell horror stories about the Department of Motor Vehicles, and I’ve heard that U.S. immigration offices are no carnival. It says in the Talmud that there are three things that cannot be acquired without great difficulty: Torah, life in the next world, and the Land of Israel. Amazing that our sages even then could see how sticky the bureaucratic tape would be in the future.
]]>http://www.jta.org/2004/12/22/life-religion/features/navigating-israels-bureaucracy/feed0A Jewish take on pregnancyhttp://www.jta.org/2004/09/07/life-religion/features/a-jewish-take-on-pregnancy
http://www.jta.org/2004/09/07/life-religion/features/a-jewish-take-on-pregnancy#respondTue, 07 Sep 2004 13:00:01 +0000http://jta-live.alley.ws/2004/09/07/default/a-jewish-take-on-pregnancyA new collection of interviews that is now hitting bookstores illustrates how pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood are all opportunities for spirituality and personal growth through the eyes of Judaism.]]>

Chana Weisberg, author of a new book on Judaism and pregnancy. (Michael Fankhauser/TillyMedia)

JERUSALEM, Aug. 5 (JTA)  Come the end of December, everyone’s mind seems to be focused on new fad diets, health club memberships and the newest quit-smoking gadgets. But the focus of the Jewish New Year is not about reducing physical dependencies, but increasing the spiritual in all areas of our lives. A new collection of interviews by Chana Weisberg, “Expecting Miracles: Finding Meaning and Spirituality in Pregnancy Through Judaism,” comes to illustrate how pregnancy, childbirth and motherhood are all, indeed, opportunities for spirituality and personal growth through the eyes of Judaism. Its U.S. release just before the Jewish New Year is appropriate, considering that Rosh Hashanah is the day humankind was born. We even refer to this in the Rosh Hashanah prayer service, where it is called Yom Hora’at, or the Day of the Birth of the World. Weisberg’s book offers about 50 interviews with a diverse group of mothers within the religious Jewish community of Jerusalem. Interspersed among the interviews is a kabbalistic birthing meditation, assorted teachings on pregnancy and birth from the cannon of classic Jewish literature, as well as a spiritual teaching about birth from the Breslov Chasidic tradition. This collection investigates how Judaism serves as a spiritual tool during pregnancy; it also is intended to empower women by broadening their understanding of motherhood. “We’re surrounded by incredible mothers, but we don’t see how incredible we are, how much we can teach the world, and how strong we are, spiritually and physically and emotionally,” Weisberg says. Although all the interviews were gathered from observant Jerusalem women, the range of lifestyles embraced by the interviewees is vast and the book is designed so that anyone, regardless of their level of Jewish knowledge, can understand their stories. The mothers of “Expecting Miracles” range from a modern Orthodox graduate of Columbia University who is still reeling from her first birth by emergency Caesarean section, to a fervently Orthodox Iraqi mikvah attendant and mother of 10 who proudly boasts that she has never undergone a prenatal checkup. Even before “Expecting Miracles” hit the shelves, Weisberg was known as the “Jewish Pregnancy Lady” to the 300,000 annual visitors to her Web site, www.jewishpregnancy.org. There, her fans find Jewish traditions and prayers for pregnancy, clips from the book, as well as personal interactions with Weisberg herself. Both the Web site and the book are outgrowths of the drastic change that Weisberg, now a mother of 3 young girls, has undergone through her own child-rearing experiences. Ironically, before the 32-year-old Weisberg became pregnant with her first child, Hadas, now 6, she loathed the constant chatter of mothers who spoke of nothing but pregnancy and children. “I always used to think, ‘Married people with children are so boring. They are the last people in the world that I would like to talk to,’ ” says Weisberg. “I was much more interested in my career.” Prior to taking the leap into motherhood, Weisberg was very focused on getting a master’s degree in social work at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem. “When I first got married, I was never at home,” Weisberg says. “The whole day I was either studying or working outside the home, and I have a lot of hesitation about being a mother.” “Then I got pregnant, and in a moment everything changed,” Weisberg continued. “While I was finishing my master’s at Hebrew U., I felt such physical pain sitting in the classes because I felt like they had so little to do with me. All I wanted to do was lie in bed, read pregnancy books and think about babies.” For Weisberg, as well as for several of the other interviewees in her book, the transition from being an independent woman into motherhood became a path of spiritual and emotional growth. The internal, 180-degree shift that Weisberg experienced during her first pregnancy drew her to the bookstore. “When I went searching for a book on what it means to be Jewish and pregnant, I shockingly came up empty-handed. I couldn’t believe there had been nothing written on the subject,” says Weisberg. The concrete plans for “Expecting Miracles” were born when Weisberg became pregnant with her second child, Hallel, now 4. Weisberg began writing the book that she had endlessly been searching for throughout her first pregnancy. “I had no credentials to be doing something like this,” says Weisberg. “I’m not a writer or a midwife. I was merely a mother of one child, which in this community means nothing. I just had this burning desire to start this project.” “I just dusted off my old tape recorder, bought a notebook and started setting up interviews with my favorite local mothers,” Weisberg added. “It was the only experience I’ve had in my life of pure inspiration. I felt as though I was just a messenger for this task that was coming from a higher place.” The book is chock-full of stories that show the intersection of Jewish spirituality and pregnancy. One woman was a former hippie who related to natural childbirth like an 11th commandment. Another focuses on praying and performing more commandments during pregnancy so that she will have a God-fearing child. Other women, who had grown up thinking that career would be their life’s focus are now struggling with their new identities as mothers. One of Weisberg’s most touching interviews came from a woman named Nili  all names of the interviewees were changed for anonymity  who is a genetic carrier of a rare and deadly illness. Weisberg explained that two of Nili’s four boys suffer from the disease, and constantly are sick from the symptoms. Still, Nili sees her life as a tremendous blessing, and Weisberg describes her as a “person with a tremendous amount of inner strength.” When she gives birth, Nili takes advantage of what Weisberg says is a Jewish idea  that the divine presence of God actually is in the room when a child is born. During labor, Weisberg says, Nili “would scream out people’s names who weren’t married and the people who were sick or suffering, or women who couldn’t have children. All the nurses would get together and give her names to scream. “Once, at the same moment that Nili was giving birth, she called out a woman’s name in the hospital who was sick and suffering. She died in the same moment” that Nili shouted her name, the book says. Though “Expecting Miracles” started as an academic endeavor, a “case study” as Weisberg described it, the journey took her and the book in a different direction. “It was a process for me, and I let these women change my approach to pregnancy and motherhood,” Weisberg says. “I feel so much love for Jewish women, for what we do and the wisdom that these woman have, and I feel like that spirit infuses the book.”

]]>http://www.jta.org/2004/09/07/life-religion/features/a-jewish-take-on-pregnancy/feed0American olim land in Israelhttp://www.jta.org/2004/07/14/life-religion/features/american-olim-land-in-israel
http://www.jta.org/2004/07/14/life-religion/features/american-olim-land-in-israel#respondWed, 14 Jul 2004 13:00:01 +0000http://jta-live.alley.ws/2004/07/14/default/american-olim-land-in-israelAn American who moved to Israel last year is now on the other side, welcoming a planeload of new immigrants as they become citizens of the Jewish state.]]>

Ariel Sharon, center, and Benjamin Netanyahu, second from right, pose with new immigrants from the U.S. and namesakes, brothers Benjamin, 11, and Ariel Shain, 3, July 14 at Ben Gurion Airport. (Jonathan Udren)

JERUSALEM, July 14 (JTA)  Almost exactly a year ago today, I was one of 330 people aboard an aliyah flight sponsored by Nefesh B’Nefesh and the Jewish Agency for Israel. I was the one with butterflies in my stomach as the plane landed, dreading the bureaucracy and dreaming of my future in Israel. “Am I crazy for moving here?” I asked myself as I stepped off the plane. That thought disappeared as suddenly “Haveinu shalom aleichem” started playing in the background. All I could focus on was the cheering and flag-waving that awaited me in the hangar as hundreds of people gathered to greet the new immigrants. As I approached the gate, I will never forget the older Sephardi woman with tears in her eyes who called out to me, “baruch habah, welcome home.” Today I stood on the other side of the fence as the first of three Nefesh B’Nefesh planes this summer arrived with new immigrants. Unlike last year, when I felt the anxiety of the question mark that was my future in Israel, today was a different story. As the nose of the plane pulled in and the flags flew and “Haveinu shalom aleichem” blared, I was filled with a comforting feeling: “Maybe I’m not crazy for making aliyah. I’m not alone in my dream of building a life in Israel.” After speaking with a few people in the crowd awaiting the plane, I noticed that some were there to greet family or friends, and some had made aliyah themselves with the help of Nefesh B’Nefesh. But I was surprised that many didn’t know anyone on the flight at all. They had come just to be part of the festivities and welcome all their brothers and sisters home. Avichail Friedman, a former B’nei Akiva emissary who spent a year in the United States promoting aliyah, came from Jerusalem to show her support. “I lived in the U.S. and I know all the challenges of leaving and how hard it can be to uproot yourself and your family. I just have to say ‘kol ha kavod’ ”  lots of respect  “to all those who are coming to Israel now,” Friedman said. Liz Bernstein, originally from Los Angeles, came to enjoy the atmosphere of the celebration as well as greet a friend making aliyah. Bernstein has lived in Jerusalem with her husband for nine months, and though aliyah is on their mind, they haven’t yet made the commitment to take Israeli citizenship. “To see all these people here dealing with the same issues of making aliyah, and overcoming them, it’s certainly inspiring. It gets the wheels turning thinking about if we’re going to stay or not,” Bernstein said. “It is a little bit crazy to make aliyah now you know,” she added. I agree: Standing there watching as hundreds of people schlep their bags down the runway and search frantically for their strollers, it does seem crazy. They’ve just moved halfway around the world to a country where they don’t speak the language and aren’t part of the culture, and where the government is in constant unrest. But the Jewish people have never had a normal history. One young woman, a seminary student named Batia, took the morning off to attend the event. She was struck by the image of the families with their luggage on the runway, and said it reminded her of pictures of Jews being shipped off to concentration camps. “But this is exactly the opposite,” she said. “It’s amazing. They are all coming home to Israel.” The highlights of the welcoming ceremony were speeches by Prime Minster Ariel Sharon and Finance Minister Benjamin Netanyahu, focusing on the importance of aliyah for Israel’s future. “Olim are the foundation of the future” of Israel, Sharon said. “I have faith in you, the State of Israel has faith in you, and we need you here more than ever. Welcome home. After 2,000 years of wandering, it has finally come to an end.” Netanyahu told a story about how the co-founder of Nefesh B’Nefesh approached him with the idea for the program more than three years ago. “Tony Gelbart told me about an idea of appealing to young couples and young professionals before they set down roots,” Netanyahu said. “He said ‘I’m really going to do it,’ and I said, ‘You’re crazy.’ And this meshuggeneh here, he went and did it.” Maybe Gelbart is a bit crazy. And maybe just as misery loves company, so does insanity. But that craziness connected all of the hundreds of cheering Jews in the hangar this morning, in the deepest places in our hearts. New oleh Michael Rosenfelt, 26, from Columbia, Mo., explained the feeling with a simple analogy. “Just like every type of plant has a certain region where it can grow the best, so too with the Jews. Eretz Yisrael is the place where we as Jews grow the best,” Rosenfeld said, using a Hebrew expression for the Land of Israel. If I try and see how I’ve grown through my first year of aliyah, I can’t really get a handle on it. I know the best spot to overlook the Old City, and I’ve figured out how to complain to the bus driver when he closes the door on my foot as I try to hop on at the last second. But those are just the small details. Like those of a tree, a person’s roots grow underground and out of sight. And I think that’s the biggest difference from a year ago those roots. In so many ways I feel more planted in Israel today than ever before. I don’t feel crazy for uprooting myself and building my life here. I feel that all of us who have come are not only planning for the future, but that we will reap the benefits of our actions. Today, with the help of the State of Israel, Nefesh B’Nefesh and the Jewish Agency, we’re digging our roots deeper into the illogical saga that is the Jewish people and their return home.

]]>http://www.jta.org/2004/07/14/life-religion/features/american-olim-land-in-israel/feed0It’s not easy not being Israelihttp://www.jta.org/2004/06/07/life-religion/features/its-not-easy-not-being-israeli
http://www.jta.org/2004/06/07/life-religion/features/its-not-easy-not-being-israeli#respondMon, 07 Jun 2004 13:00:01 +0000http://jta-live.alley.ws/2004/06/07/default/its-not-easy-not-being-israeliA recent oleh struggles to escape the English-speaking womb, but the fact that he´s American makes him an outsider among new Israeli friends.]]>JERUSALEM, June 7 (JTA) — I’ve decided that I no longer want to be American. I’m not making a political statement or giving up my citizenship. I’m not even refusing to come back for a visit. I’m just sick of being American. It’s not even the fact that I’m American that really bothers me. It’s more the fact that I’m not Israeli. Sure, I have my Israeli identification card with my smiling face on it. I even have my new Israeli driver’s license. I’ll vote in the next election, and the government will take my tax money once I start working. But no matter how hard I try, I’m just no good at being Israeli. And even after nine months of citizenship and four months of Hebrew immersion, I still don’t feel like I’m getting much closer. A few nights ago I went next door to the pizza shop and ordered a slice. The waitress didn’t even entertain the idea of answering me back in Hebrew; she just started asking me what I wanted to drink in English. How did she know just from my Hebrew line, “One slice with peppers please,” that I wasn’t Israeli? Was it because I said please? How un-Israeli of me. Maybe she noticed my Gap khakis? Or maybe it was just my accent. As much as I improve my Hebrew, I’ll always be viewed as an immigrant. Lately I’ve felt a strange contrast here in Jerusalem. On one hand, I feel completely at home, more at home than I felt even in America. But on the other hand, I feel that in so many day-to-day situations I’m standing outside peeking into the window of Israeli life. In an attempt to escape from the English-speaking womb I’ve been nestled in since my aliyah, I’ve made some changes over the last several months. The first step was to make an effort to improve my language skills. So I’ve been practicing every morning in a five-hour-a-day, state-sponsored Hebrew-language class for the last four months. But I wanted not only to learn Hebrew grammar and vocabulary in the morning, I wanted a chance to use my Hebrew in real-world situations. This was also the advice that I got from every immigrant that I know who has become fluent in Hebrew. At some point, they all had to immerse themselves. So I began attending an Israeli yeshiva every afternoon. I knew a few Americans who had successfully integrated into the yeshiva’s Hebrew program with great results. I would see them sometimes around town with their Israeli friends, speaking freely, laughing loudly and looking very Israeli. I couldn’t figure out exactly what made them seem more Israeli, but whatever it was, I wanted it. Over the last four months, spending four to five hours every day interacting with Israelis, I see the differences much clearer. Despite their loud and tough exterior, there is a real honestly and sweetness to them. The comparison of an Israeli to a sabra, a desert cactus that is sharp on the outside but sweet on the inside, actually is well deserved. Overall, I have been shocked to find them more kind and genuine than me. For example, the other day two men who apparently hadn’t seen each in a while greeted each other with a huge hug, then kissed each other on the cheek. One then put his hands on his friend’s face. These were such loving and genuine gestures, unlike anything I had ever seen before between two male friends. In general, Israelis seem more hands-on. It’s uncommon to go through any conversation of significant length without being touched on your hand or shoulder. Often, two friends passing each other in the hall will make some contact, whether a pat on the pack or a playful tickle. It took me aback at first, but I’m warming up to their caring gestures. I pondered the reason for their affection and closeness. Israelis don’t grow up in big suburban houses with white picket fences separating one family from another. They don’t come from a culture of respecting “personal space.” Instead, they embody the attitude of “what’s mine is yours.” While a beautiful idea, it’s also very foreign to me. But these Israelis also are veterans of the army, and that has influenced them too. Along with their sweetness and genuineness, there is also a toughness and distance that I’ve sensed in them. Every night, I usually stay at the yeshiva for the simple Israeli-style dinner. I try to avoid sitting with my American friends, even though they too will speak Hebrew with me. With them I can always fall back on English, and I don’t want that option. But when I sit with the Israelis, I find myself acting uncharacteristically shy. Sure, I recognize them and they recognize me, but we don’t really know each other. I generally don’t start a conversation, though I usually introduce myself. Usually, I just find myself sitting there and listening, trying to understand their jokes or follow their conversations. Sometimes they look at me with a hard stare as if say, “What, are you just sitting there eavesdropping?” I look down at my sliced tomatoes and cucumbers. I’m so intimidated, not only because they speak so fast, but also because there is something there that is intangibly different that I will never quite get a grip on. One recent night I was the only non-native Israeli sitting at a table of eight. One guy started by speaking to me in Hebrew: “Pass me the . . . ” he started, then said the word “jam” in English with a poor imitation of a Southern accent. “Jam” must be a funny word for Hebrew speakers, because the rest of the table really got a kick out of his question. I tried to laugh along as well, thinking that this was their way of trying to relate to me. I answered back in Hebrew, “Sure, here’s the jam,” I said, using a real Southern accent, the one I picked up going to college in Tallahassee, Fla. But no one laughed. The rest of the meal people kept asking me for the “jam,” and every time it would bring a few chuckles. I guess it was an inside joke, but I didn’t feel like an insider. I still felt like an onlooker peeking in the window, despite how much I wanted that barrier to disappear. I think there must be things that I bring as an American that can add to the richness of the culture here: saying “excuse me” when I bump into someone, greater use of “please” and “thank you,” the patience to not to cut in front of others in the grocery line. I’m glad I can bring these qualities to Israel, but I can’t help but want what I’ll never acquire. I’ll never be able to speak without an accent, I’ll never remember all the abbreviations on my bank statement. I am an immigrant, and will always be looked at as one. I never will be truly Israeli. But maybe one day I’ll be the one surprising an American bystander with a heartfelt gesture.
]]>http://www.jta.org/2004/06/07/life-religion/features/its-not-easy-not-being-israeli/feed0Oleh turns to the righthttp://www.jta.org/2004/04/14/life-religion/features/oleh-turns-to-the-right
http://www.jta.org/2004/04/14/life-religion/features/oleh-turns-to-the-right#respondWed, 14 Apr 2004 13:00:01 +0000http://jta-live.alley.ws/2004/04/14/default/oleh-turns-to-the-rightAn American immigrant to finds that Israel’s pressing issues force him to abandon his left-wing political views and move to the right.]]>JERUSALEM, April 14 (JTA)  Ever since I can remembering registering my first political thought, I’ve considered myself a proud lefty. As my college career progressed, my left-wing political slant became more pronounced, and I often could be found preaching about the beauty of state-subsidized health care or the pitfalls of rampant consumerism. When I graduated and moved to New York City, my near-socialist values found a happy home at an ultra-liberal Jewish non-profit organization. We raised money for such causes as a living wage bill, equal education for minorities and inner-city community organizing projects. The left was my passion, as proven by the Mother Jones and Adbusters Magazines that lined my bathroom book rack. Since moving to Israel, however a strange transformation has occurred: I now find myself as far to the right in Israeli politics as I was to the left in the American arena. Evacuate Gaza? It’s as much part of the Land of Israel as Tel Aviv! Give the West Bank over to terrorists? Are you kidding? Look at what’s happened to the guns that we gave after Oslo! Recently my political stance has flipped so far to the right that I had to look in the mirror and ask myself, “What happened to your die-hard love for the left?” The funny thing is that I don’t feel like I’ve gone through some kind of political metamorphosis. I still take the same stance about those American liberal issues that I worked for in New York. It’s not so much that I’ve changed, but the issues around me have all changed: Israel is a different political landscape, and the issues here have taken my politics in a new direction. The difference is simple. In the United States, the left and the right are divided by money matters. Here the left and right are divided on matters of the heart. Considering current events, every political stance in Israel seems to revolve around the military. What should be done with terrorists, what should the military be doing in Judea, Samaria and Gaza. Should we be sending 18-year-old soldiers to fight and protect the people that live there? Is that land even really considered Israel? Aren’t Palestinian leaders the same people who are working to kill babies on buses as if they were soldiers? These issues tend to pull at my heart strings more than a living wage bill ever did. American issues never hit so close to home. Having grown up in the palm tree- and BMW-lined suburbs of Ft. Lauderdale, I never had to worry about education or financial issues. The inequity and injustice that I felt about big business and fast-food chains was always external. But the issues here are not only closer to home, they literally affect me every day. Every day Israel is fighting for its very existence. And as a resident of Jerusalem and a bus rider, I pray every day that I and my friends and my people don’t get caught in the crossfire of this battle. My curiosity and desire for truth inspired me to travel to places where the lines in the sand are clearly drawn between right and the left, such as Gaza and Hebron, Beit El  which sits next to Ramallah  and Shavei Shomron, next to the terrorist hotbed of Tulkarm. Beside my day-to-day experiences in Jerusalem, my travels have shown me a reality that slowly nudged my political pendulum more and more to the right. My most recent trip was to Kfar Darom, a settlement in the heart of the Gaza Strip. The rolling green hills of farmland that led to the border of the strip came to a halt as soon as we reached the gate. The landscape quickly changed to barren sand dunes, haphazardly built Arab villages and army vehicles. The bulletproof bus pulled into a break between the giant cement walls that surround the settlement as if it were a military outpost. Inside those cold concrete walls was a tropical paradise that reminded me of my South Florida childhood, with palm trees and the smell of salt in the air. The residents where watching their children play in the yard, cooking dinner and doing other normal suburbanites activities such as taking out the trash. Shots rang out in the distance from time to time, but no one seemed worried, not even the children: They kept pedaling their bikes down the street as if nothing had happened. Everyone that I met seemed calm, relaxed and normal, not bitter or hateful or extreme as the dreaded settlers are portrayed. There was no talk of shipping out or destroying all the Arabs, as I had expected. Yes, there certainly was dismay and anger toward the terrorists who constantly tried to attack their settlement, and who sometimes succeeded. But the residents were much more excited about celebrating the birth of a new boy than talking about the rockets that have crashed on their roofs. A family that came from Ethiopia 13 years ago told me how blessed they felt to have their first house in Israel, considering the financial and cultural difficulties they had faced along the way. There was joy and peace inside their walls, not hatred or anger, despite the war going on outside. It wasn’t hard to pick out the victims of terrorism in the community. There was the a 9-year-old boy who rolled down the street in a wheelchair, one leg missing. Three years ago his school bus was blow up by terrorists, killing and maiming the children aboard. I saw another person in a wheelchair, this time a woman: Her car was shot at by a terrorist while she and her husband were heading out of Gaza one evening to get groceries. Now her family is moving to a more handicapped-friendly house, and she just gave birth to another child. Looking at these people, I wondered how Prime Minister Ariel Sharon could consider a plan that would reward those intentionally trying to kill children riding to school on a bus, or shoot an innocent couple driving their car. I asked one of the mothers if she worried about her children living so close to Arabs on the attack. “Jerusalem is better, with all the buses blowing up?” she asked. One thing has become clear during my travels: Sitting in Gaza or Hebron is really no different than sitting in an office building in Tel Aviv. The war is aimed at all the Jews in Israel; those in the settlements just happen to be on the front lines. The truth is that simply just living in Israel has changed my outlook in many ways, not only politically. But in my core I am still being driven by the same heart. Deep inside I feel this burning desire to support what is ethical and what is true. I see oppressed Arabs living in the West Bank and Gaza Strip and blame their terrorist leaders, not Israel. I hear the left crying out “Peace Now,” but I want real peace, not momentary quiet followed by larger-scale attacks. It seems clear in my mind that the right better understands the type of evil that Israel is facing today, and how to deal with it, despite the painful reality of war. As long as the issues keep changing, I couldn’t care less which side of the fence I’m sitting. I only hope that I’ll judge them in the most objective and educated way possible, and that my heart and head will be pointed in the right, correct, direction.
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